


A Little Test of Mind Over Flesh

by d__T



Category: Blood Drive (TV), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, I wrote this to ship hannibal and slink and I did that, M/M, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, Scheming, Temporary Character Death, additional machinations, boot licking, if you want something else this is not for you, it's hannibal there's cannibalism, last chapter is porn with plot, takes place in the Hannibal universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-09-28 05:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17176445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d__T/pseuds/d__T
Summary: The Blood Circus comes to Baltimore, and Hannibal Lecter takes issues with Julian Slink's, well, everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My sin is multishipping. I'm not sorry.

Freddie’s a vulture, always profiting off of other’s kills. She’s very very good at it, scraping up every bit of gore from the between the sidewalk stones. It sustains her, more than just what she publishes.

She has an agreement with Hannibal. It’s one of the few that’s not on her terms. It goes like this; she stays out of Hannibal’s business and Hannibal lets her keep her pretty face and her clever eyes and her sharp tongue and all of her internal organs in their original locations and conditions. No tampering from either of them. She also gives Hannibal all of her information, whatever she’s tracking, not just what she publishes, and Hannibal pays her in tidbits from the Ripper. Nothing kept to herself, for that, and they both knew that she was lying when she agreed to _all_.

Hannibal allows it because he is a reasonable man and that is the nature of the agreement.

And Will needs to be fed. Will may be out of the FBI business but without monstrous personalities to occupy his mind, Will turns to Hannibal and- he cannot bare to have a second of himself in among Will’s strays and the desire under his tongue becomes too great. He feeds Will Freddie’s notes, bit by bit, and watches him play with his dogs and his wood-crafts.

The carnival is coming to town. 

That makes it sound like just any carnival. Freddie’s notes construct a different picture.

The Blood Circus is not coming to Virginia- no, it’s coming to Baltimore and it’s billing itself as a true spectacle for the murder capital of America.

Elsewhere it’s claimed to have the greatest sideshow since PT Barnum bit the dust and to be the only true traveling spectacular in the world. A real freakshow. The critics review it as ‘tasteless drivel, not even fit for the masses’ and ‘a must-see for those who slow on the interstate for gory wrecks’ and ‘an orgiastic catastrophe’. The face of it all is the capering lunatic who appears in every televised ad and on every billboard and who is by turns sly, seductive, daring like a lover and an egotist at the center of his own earthquake betting the viewers regret at missing out against the sale of a ticket.

Julian Slink. 

Even Hannibal has seen the advertisements, much to his distaste.

Slink holds no interest to him.

The wave of crime that follows the carnival, however. It’s almost all violent crime; the police reports make it banal. Homicide. Rape. Arson. But underneath the paperwork, it’s all the fantastical works of fantastical psychotics. Beheadings, torture, cannibalism. Creative, passion fueled, terrible terrible things.

The carnival holds his interests as a mask for his own activities and its nature as a pathetic parody. He will capture the face of it and make a mockery of it and feed the personality and then the flesh to his darling Will.

 

The carnival only stays in place for a couple of nights to a week, and then it’s on the road again. No fixed address for months at a time until it shuts down for winter and its skeleton is stored in a warehouse and all its bodies disperse across the world to their homes.

So it comes as some surprise when the clerk at the Baltimore Hotel stops him. “Sir- a letter for you. It arrived a few days ago.”

Julian accepts the envelope, turning to Rasher with it lifted up between his blackened fingertips and his eyebrow quirked. Rasher shrugs one shoulder in the slightest movement. Conversation concluded, Julian tucks the letter inside his jacket with the room keys and they head on up.

It’s never a secret of where the carnival will be next, but the banal operations- feeding it, moving it, housing it- are only as secret as operations unimportant to the public eye generally are. Yet a letter addressed to the very room Julian Slink will be staying in arriving several days in advance speaks to a certain dedication. He is fascinated and intrigued and it’s not one of Rasher’s little stunts so it might actually be dangerous.

The carnival takes the rest of the day to coalese in its new location. It sprawls out, sinking tentacles and tent posts into the ground, springing up like kudzu over Druid Hill. A garish monster overlooking the arching heart of Baltimore, and Julian spends that time with his cell phone plastered to his ear. The caravan of problems to be solved is endless, and the letter weights his pocket the whole time.

It’s heavy, of good card stock. It looks and feels like money; the address was written with a nibbed pen. It also smells faintly of dog, and the black from Julian’s fingertips has stained the edges of the envelope.

Later, so much later in the evening, over dinner Julian finally gets a moment to open the envelope. Inside is a single card- he wipes his hands again, feeling it important to not get takeout grease on this- and carefully extracts the card.

It’s written in the same meticulous script as the envelope was addressed in. There are a few simple lines on it; an invitation for dinner a few nights hence. It’s set considerately early in the day, early enough to generously avoid showtime. An address.

Julian holds it out to Rasher. “An invitation to dinner. No names.”

“Well, that’s fucky.” Rasher says, taking the card and inspecting it. After a moment, he pulls out his phone and taps the address in.

Julian leans over to snoop on the results. The first results are for a private psychotherapy practice. The lower results are from a series of Tattlecrime articles, headlines blaring murder and medical malpractice. They’re several years old. There are no streetview pictures of the place, the driveway is too long but the satellite shows a veritable mansion. Exactly the kind of place this card stock could come from.

“Hannibal Lecter.” Rasher says. “What a name.”

“We’re going.” Julian decides.

“Us?”

“Of course.”

Rasher sniffs. “This feels like a trap. You know our groupies-”

Julian makes a jack off gesture. “This isn’t some slavering fan. I wanna poke it and see how badly I get bitten.”

Rasher rolls his eyes. “How are you bored midseason?”

“There’s a difference between boredom and curiosity, darling.”

Rasher lifts one hand in assent.

 

There’s an envelope in the mail. It is addressed to Hannibal Lecter, and it’s written in a Palmer script so strict that it might as well be out of the 1940 textbook. Hannibal turns it over in his hands with a faint smile, taking it inside before opening it.

The response is as terse as his invitation had been.  _We accept_ .

We? Hm, he had not planned on Slink bringing another person. A lady friend, or perhaps a business associate. He will have to adjust his plans- two for dinner.

The script on the envelope is regular enough that it might be Slink’s regular handwriting instead of him trying to impress Hannibal. He might have to revise his opinion upward.

 

Rasher’s driving- he’s better than Julian is with the massive rental Yukon- and Julian is fidgeting. Sunday morning is usually for sleeping off the Saturday night show and the afternoon is for preparing the evening show. Always a little darker, more hedonistic, ID strictly checked at the gate but never recorded. But today they have this  _dinner_ with  _Hannibal fucking Lecter_ and Rasher is so incredibly over Julian’s new pet obsession with the man.

Rasher thinks this is a bad idea. His gut is telling him so. And Julian, damn him, won’t listen. He pulls the Yukon over. “Out. Get out.”

“What? Why?” Julian seems bewildered for a moment.

Rasher’s already gone around to the passenger side. He yanks both doors open- how did they manage to get suicide doors on a rental Yukon, anyway?- and drags Julian out of the SUV.

Julian smirks at him. “Now, really?”

Rasher shoves him up against the frame bared by the shelter of the doors and starts pawing his trousers open. “Yes, now. Shut up.”

Seconds later, he’s on his knees in the gravel with his lips pressed to Julian’s cock, sucking him off with a ferocity that he hasn’t felt since the last time Julian caught him butchering a kill.

Julian is swearing and clutching at his head in moments and maybe it’s disgusting how quickly he can get Julian off but he’s on a mission to blow Julian’s brains out one step short of literally.

Bare minutes later, Julian’s stuttered off in his mouth and hauled Rasher back to his feet. “What the fuck, do you-”

“Shut up _shut up_.” Rasher grits, jamming his rings in against the oversensitive edges of Julian’s cock. “Fucking behave. For the next three hours, you need to _fucking behave_.”

Julian yowls and shoves him back. “Forgive me, I’ll _fucking behave_.” His tone switches conciliatory as he scans Rasher’s body. “You want me to- jesus christ, you’re not even hard.”

Rasher growls at him. “Get in the car.”

“There’s gravel in your knees.”

Rasher stomps back to the drivers side, brushes his knees off where Julian can’t see, and slides back into his seat. Julian’s already back in the passenger seat.

“Are we good now?” Julian asks, punctuating by zipping up his pants.

Rasher wants to scream, but he starts the car instead. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

 

 

Will knows what Hannibal is doing when he shows him a new personality. He’s not stupid, but he soaks it up anyway. This one is loud, brash, voracious, everything Will is not, everything Hannibal hates.

And now the carnival god himself is on their doorstep. Slink is a spectacle unto himself, dressed in a craze of colors and patterns, cane and tophat, chemically abused hair curving down beside his eyes like inverted devil’s horns. When he meets eyes with Slink, there’s a flicker of recognition, like Slink knows there’s a simulacrum of himself in Will’s head. It’s startling.

Behind Slink is a spider of a man- Will’s seen him on the edges of videos, but never this close. His face is heavily tattooed, ink crawling down his neck and down his forearms. Alchemical symbols on his knuckles. He’s dressed plainly; black vest, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black jeans. Like lip service to Slink’s style.

They’re an interesting pair; and Will hadn’t guessed that this spider in the corner of Slink’s glory would accompany him to dinner.

“Welcome, Mr. Slink and-” Hannibal extends his hand for Slink to shake. “Pardon, I don’t know your associates name.”

Slink shakes Hannibal’s hand with enthusiasm. “My partner, Rasher.”

Hannibal sniffs, and Slink’s neutral smile widens into something more malicious.

“Rasher. This is my partner, Will.” Hannibal continues, not offering his hand to Rasher. Will waves. “Do come in.”

Will doesn’t know what Hannibal smelled on them, but for him to re-use Slink’s word like that. To load the word and sling it back, to bare themselves like that.

The game is begun.

 

 

This is the kind of place Rasher got his face tattoos in order to be permanently uninvited from. It’s like if Julian had infinite money and more taste. He wants to put his hands on every single thing and piss Hannibal off.

But if Julian is on his behavior, he will be too.

At some point, Julian must have learned all of this. How to make small talk into a weapon or a dance, which forks to use. Studied it in his books, or more likely, made this way by his corporate overlords.

Hannibal is  _very_ polite. Like royalty, perhaps, although Rasher had found no indication of that in his harried research over the last couple days. He’s taking his cues from Julian and from Hannibal and he knows that he’ll get a reaming from Julian later for being a traitor. Will doesn’t seem to care what is proper, or he’s not trying.

The food is incredible- Rasher is only a middling cook himself, but it’s enough to appreciate the leap in skills and time and presentation between himself and Hannibal. He’d ask about the food except from the amount of French the man’s already used, Rasher knows he’s not gonna understand a single word of a more detailed description.

So he eats in silence, watching Will do the same and paying half attention to Julian gossiping about the show biz.

“Will.”

Will looks at him, seeming startled that he has enough physical presence to be spoken to.

“Does he cook for you like this all the time?”

Will smiles. “Not as elaborate, no, but he never compromises his standards.”

Rasher gives him a considering look. “What are we doing here?”

Will gives him the considering look right back. “Hannibal likes to know his competition.”

That got Hannibal’s attention, although he doesn’t outwardly acknowledge it.

“I did not realize psychotherapy and the, ah, entertainment industry were so closely linked.”

“He enjoys a certain amount of mayhem and meddling.” Will looks almost cheeky.

Hannibal interrupts, “I merely wish to understand the relation between your carnival appearing and the crime wave that follows. There’s enough evidence for a correlation, but a causation would be fascinating. Wouldn’t it?”

“I merely get everyone to their cues on time.” Rasher demurs, loathing that he pulled the conversation to himself.

“Julian, care to share your thoughts?”

Oh, they’re on first names now, and Julian always cares to share his thoughts. Will looks oddly satisfied at this development.

 

 

Hannibal gives Julian an opening to talk endlessly about his favorite topic: the artform of titillation and the gullibility of the masses. 

Hannibal seems passingly interested, Will moreso. 

He’s got a good head of steam up on the subject when his phone rings. A single  _tock_ followed by barely audible buzzes, but it’s enough for Hannibal to nail him with a gaze so sharp it’s like a dart to the forehead.

“Excuse me. I have to take this.” Julian makes a gesture like he’s brushing the inconvenience aside for Hannibal. “Show biz.”

He steps out of the dining room, and then goes further until he’s out of earshot. For as much as he offered Hannibal a behind the scenes look at his operation, unknown business is private business. The tock of his bootheels on the immaculate hardwood floors accompanies him down the hall.

He dials the number- it’s one of Rasher’s worker bees. “Hello, Sean.”

“Mr. Slink. Bad news, Reeba’s leg is broken.”

Reeba is the lead on aerial silks. “Shit. Where’s the understudy?”

“Nobody can find her.”

“Suspicious. Keep looking for the understudy and get Charlene to rearrange whatever needs be to get a headline.”

“Aye aye.”

“Oh-” Hannibal has appeared, silently somehow. “Sean, I’ll call you back in a moment.”

Hannibal is barefoot, sleeves rolled up. Oh dear, this is gonna go poorly. 

“I can’t let you leave.”

Julian grins, wide and unsettling. “I think you’ll find that rather _difficult_.”

Hannibal ignores his words- rude!- and hits him in the abdomen so hard that it feels like his lungs seize. He’d resist, but as long as Rasher gets out of here everything will be fine. He yells for Rasher but all that comes out is a harsh wheeze.

And then Hannibal follows with a knife to the throat. Fuck this outfit too-

 

 

Will seems more relaxed without Hannibal around and Rasher would prod at it but his phone buzzes. It’s probably related to whatever called Julian away so with a quick sorry for politeness’ sake, he digs his phone out and checks the text.

Julian: “There’s been an emergency. Meet me at the car.”

“Ah- I have been summoned away. Thank you for dinner, it was a delight. Please extend my thanks to Hannibal.” Rasher pauses, Julian had been talking about inviting them special to the Sunday performance. “Should we expect you at the show tonight?”

Will nods. “Of course. It will be our pleasure.”

“I’ll have an escort at the gate for you.” Rasher’s not wholly certain of that; Hannibal is far too proper for the sort of blasphemy that Julian produces especially for Sunday shows. “Tell Hannibal to dress down a little.”

Will grins.

Julian is not at the car. Rasher starts it and backs it around so that they can leave expeditiously when Julian does appear.

He sends a text: “I’m gonna fucking leave you here.”

There is no reply. He waits another moment, watching the front door in the Yukon’s mirrors. It opens, and it’s Hannibal, not Julian. 

Hannibal leans on the doorframe for a moment, watching him in return. He looks disheveled and Rasher realizes belatedly that it’s because the suit jacket is missing and his shirtsleeves are rolled up. His hands are bloody.

Julian won’t be meeting him at the car because Julian is dead.

And if he doesn’t get the hell out of here, he won’t be meeting Julian at the hotel.

He slams the Yukon into drive.

 

 

4 hours to doors, and Julian’s in a new skin. He’s sitting on the hotel bed bare ass naked because even the air itches right now, working on cloning his old phone to a new one. Gotta shut down the old one before someone (Hannibal) plays patty-cakes with his contacts list. And wait for Rasher to return.

The shuffle of the door card in the lock disturbs him from picking apart the events at dinner and it should be Rasher- yes, it is. Face dark with worry and the anger that comes with it, body tense and relaxing when he sees Julian.

It’s nice to see that he cares.

He waves, grinning. Rasher looks him over like he’s searching for the wounds Hannibal left in him. Rasher always does, and there never are. 

Helpfully, he points at his belly, and then at his throat. “Didn’t feel a thing after that one!”

“Good to see you too.” Rasher mutters.

"Come here." Julian demands, holding an arm out. “We must discuss my latest assassination attempt.”

Rasher flops down on the bed beside him and the dip of the mattress is reassuring until Rasher rolls up against him and that’s hugely more sensation than he can handle right now. “ow _ow ow back up_.”

Rasher scoots away. “Sorry.”

“Hannibal might not have been successful but  _fuck_ you might be.”

Rasher smiles faintly. “Glad my skills continue to meet expectations.”

Julian pauses, sighs. His deaths are harder on Rasher than either of them like to acknowledge. “I like you for more than your ability to adequately meet my needs.”

Rasher rolls onto his back and stretches out. “Aw, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He’d love to butter Rasher up, get a little retaliation for earlier in, but their time is running out. Rasher will have to be his hands and commander even more than usual, at least until Julian can bear to let clothing touch his skin again. “They know too much about us and I don’t think Reeba’s accident was as unintentional as we could want to believe.”

He reaches out, putting a hand on Rasher’s shoulder. “They probably aren’t expecting _me_ , so my priority is making sure they don’t try to clean you up. And the show.”

It’s true that the show is second to Rasher’s well-being to him as much as it gets between them sometimes, but Rasher chuckles dryly anyway.

“So you’re going on stage and I’m making like a ghost so they can’t do it for real. We should have someone watch for them. Personalized service from gate to seat.” Rasher offers.

Julian nods. “We got anyone _gracious_?”

“Think so.” Rasher contemplates for a moment. “No retaliation until after unless they attack me, although I wouldn’t be opposed to revenging you and Reeba.”

That’s what he was looking for; Rasher’s personal interest in it. He seems pragmatic now but Julian knows that’s in deference to what he thinks Julian’s wishes are. Hannibal might appear on their territory tonight and making a gift for Rasher wouldn’t go amiss if he can manage it. 

 

 

A man meets them at the gate. He’s dressed in all black like the rest of the carnival’s workers. He says his name is Andy and this would be inconsequential except that he knows both Hannibal’s and Will’s full names and he says with the slightest  of sly smiles that Slink would like to extend his welcome to them and that Andy himself is part of the experience that they purchased. Will’s touch on Hannibal’s arm tells him that Will knows what he bought and this is not it.

“Right this way.” Andy requests, leading them to their seats. It gives Hannibal a bit of a tour of the operation- the gates are set up to funnel the cattle of humanity directly to their areas with the minimum of turbulence. Andy has plucked them out of that stream like two rocks and has placed them high above on the banks.

Around them, the shuffling clamor of the cattle settling into place rises to the big top. Like sea, like waves; Hannibal looks around, tracking the paths of workers and performers barely visible in their hides beyond the stage. No one seems disturbed; the hive is not upset. Interesting.

Slowly, the lights come down. The audience doesn’t quiet, exactly, but the clamor becomes less as the underlying bass throb increases.

A constellation of lasers flicks on, turning the audience into a drifting, swaying, slowly expanding holly wreath. Spotlights come up on the stage. Julian Slink rises up through an opening in the middle, lifting his arms in acknowledgement of the crowd’s roar.

Like Hannibal hadn’t slit his throat and left him lying on the cold-slab to drain just hours previously.

Hannibal is not one to use profane language, but this is fucking weird. He feels Will tense beside him, and then relax when Hannibal remains outwardly unaffected by the surprise.

“Friends, fiends, lovers-” Slink calls out across the audience, lowering his arms and this time the crowd quiets as if commanded. “Welcome to the Blood Circus!” 

There’s hoots and hollers, the lasers waver as if tuned to them. Hannibal looks to the side and up into the scaffolding but Slink’s man is not visible.

“And welcome home!” Slink pulls his voice up from the seductive depths he’d sent it to. “Tonight we have two very special guests- who don’t know the rules!”

The lasers flicker, the arena going dark except for the searing light pinning Slink to his own monstrous shadow on the stage, and the two laser red fingerprints- one on Hannibal’s chest, and one on Will’s.

When Slink speaks again on the other side of his breath, the constellation flicks up to the canvas above, a crass mockery of the stars outside. And the ephemeral press of the laser light lifts off of his chest.

“Stay- do not leave- and know the time of your life! Know rapture, awe, and fear! Leave, and know only  _regret_ .”

Slink looks up, directly at him like he can pick Hannibal out of the dark mass. “Let the show begin!”

Performers tumble onto the stage around him. Between one moment and the next, he disappears.

And then Hannibal dreams. Not the fractious carnal images that Slink would plant in his mind but soaring visages, strung up in sections.

 

 

The lull has Rasher on edge. The show went fine; Reeba’s understudy was found on time and performed admirably. Julian was as Julian as ever, no sign that he’d been killed not 6 hours previously. Hannibal only disappeared from under Andy’s watchful eye once but didn’t manage to find Rasher, at least. It’s fine, it’s  _fine_ .

The roadies are doing their thing- takedown isn’t until tomorrow but it’s always easiest to pack the evening up while the evening’s still hot and liquid in everyone’s brains- so they can probably live without Rasher for a few minutes. He leans up against a strut and pulls the radio earpiece and its accompanying chatter out and just leans there with his head tipped back for a moment. Just breathing.

Okay, right. He tugs his phone out.

To Crew: If you see anyone suspicious poking around- do not interact. Let me know the time and location. Thanks!

To Julian: We’re not in the clear yet. There’s something coming but I don’t know what.

Messages sent, he leans there some more with his phone lax in his hand.

There’s probably another half hour before everyone gives up and sacks out and he can not find the energy to even think about an amount of time that large.  It’s been a long fucking day.

He wakes his phone up, flinching at the brightness.

To Crew: I’m out. Don’t get caught doing anything I wouldn’t do.

To Julian: Meet me at the hotel

It’s like a prickling in his back, sweat drying, hair standing on end. It’s his brain kicking up a fuss because Julian died, and this is not the first time Julian has died.

It should be nothing now. But the images swim up again, the feverish dreams of his kills wearing Julian’s slack and bloodied face. He’d found him that time, speared up through the ribs like a puppet, hazel eyes still open and staring. It put him off dinner for nearly a year.

Turns out it’s easier to find out second hand when it’s someone he cares about.

 

 

He beats Julian back to the hotel room. He scours the small space for intruders and disturbances- none found and tries to relax but only finds a tense sort of waiting in the armchair beside the window.

The rattle of the keycard in the door startles him; he’s up on his feet and defensive in a flash but it’s only Julian; trapped out by the door chain. He goes and lets him in, carefully relocking and chaining the door again after.

“You’re skittish.” Julian observes. He’s dressed down now, leather jacket over a painfully patterned button down, and jeans. Makeup scrubbed off except for his eyes.

Rasher caves, striding over to hug Julian with his arms tucked up under Julian’s jacket in the warm space.

“Hey, I’m back. It’s okay.” Julian pets him.

Rasher inhales carefully, exhales just as carefully. “Someday it’s not gonna work.”

“I’m fucking immortal, baby.” Julian shrugs and Rasher wishes he wouldn’t treat it like that.

“You’re a freak and someday your luck will run out.” Rasher says to his shoulder.

“No circling tonight, yeah? Save it for the road tomorrow.” And then Julian picks him up and staggers him the two steps to the bed.

 

 

Julian’s alarm rings- under his pillow this time, for fuck’s sake- and moments later Rasher’s hand hits him in the face. The impact is as much part of his alarm as evanescence blaring  _wake me up_ into the side of his skull. Julian swears, fishing at his phone to shut it up. Rasher rolls over as soon as it’s quiet, so Julian thwaps him to prevent his escape back into the sweet embrace of sleep.

It’s Rasher’s damn schedule they’re on, and Rasher insists on keeping the same hours that he demands of his crew- and a few more besides.

Load and road days are chaos. Barely directed pandemonium at the macro scale, high efficiency at the micro.

It comes to a screeching halt when a roadie runs up to them as they approach. She looks panicked- “Slink, you need to see this. Wait- uh. It’s really fucked up, it’s you. Your.”

She’s babbling.

Julian jams down a flicker of irritation. They’re a carnival of horrors, it’s their stock in trade. He pushes past her and in his wake, she almost clings to Rasher.

Rasher calls out to him just as he’s striding into the big top and then none of it matters because he’s looking up at himself.

The canvas is unlaced at the top, letting the strong morning sun through in a huge beam. Suspended half in the light and half in the darkness below is Julian, limbs outstretching like he’s falling. It’s not a graceful position, his head is tipped unnaturally far back, one leg kicked up. Julian is staring up at his own upside down face.

“Holy shit,” whispers Rasher in disbelief somewhere behind him.

He sticks out an arm for Rasher and after a few moments Rasher walks into his grasp.

“Didn’t expect this.” Julian finally says.

The roadie shuffles around. “I was gonna call 911?”

“Get the fuck out.” Julian snaps.

“ _Don’t call 911._ ” Rasher hastily adds. "I'll do it." 

And then it’s just them, staring up at Julian’s flying corpse.

"So this is the Chesapeake Ripper." Rasher says after a while. "Huh."

Julian looks up for a while longer. If he thinks about the artistry and not about how it's his face adhered to a plastic mask and set out from his flayed bare skull a little ways, it's beautiful. "So Hannibal is the Ripper?" 

“Well.” Rasher glances up again and shrugs. “It’s hard to tell from down here, but the design of it…”

“Huh.” His body will have to come down soon; the whole structure has to come down right about now, actually. It needs to be folded onto several trucks because the whole carnival is moving south in the afternoon. It’s a strange moment, still and calm and serene with the chaos outside, presided over by his dead self.

The roadie shuffles back in, somewhat apologetically. “The cops were called.”

Julian snaps, the ire from earlier boiling up. “Oh for _fucks sake_.”

The roadie flinches back and Rasher steps away to talk to her in quiet tones.

And then it’s just him.

 

 

The Baltimore PD are standing around arguing with Rasher by the time Will arrives. He’d been running with his dogs when he got Jack’s call and is consequently even later than usual. And nobody can move anything or do anything or leave before Will has had his look. Per Jack’s orders.

Jack had called him again while he was driving to brief him on the context. Will in turn did not tell him that he’d been at the Sunday show with Hannibal. He wouldn’t be able to explain the curiosity that fueled dragging Hannibal into a perversion of his usual distractions. No, that’s not his story to explain and perhaps it is selfish to keep the knowledge that Hannibal is not as aloof as he thinks his is to himself.

Well, he’s only human.

Jack leads him into the big tent and sets him loose.

In the daylight, it seems smaller despite being hideously empty. The fantasy is stripped back to the bones. They stretch up to the top canvas and out to the acrobats towers. Naked, dirty, bare, the toll showing even on steel.

Hanging up between the acrobats towers is a body. The light has passed over it now, but he can see how it would have been illuminated by the sun. An angel, hideous and horrifying, flying in the darkness of debauchery. Not quite a demon yet, but devilish. Will thinks of his first sighting of Slink, and it  _is_ Slink up there. Still partially dressed in what he wore to Sunday dinner.

The Ripper, then, is bold with his gifts.

Underneath sits Slink, motionless but very much alive. He’s watching Will do his analysis with sharply aware eyes. Calculating.

Will doesn’t like that look. He goes over anyway. “Who is he to you?”

He doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. Brothers, twins, mockeries. He’s not ready for Slink’s bland tone when he says, “ _Dead_.”

His first instinct is to think  _bad blood_ but Slink is not pleased or upset or- just taut. Paying attention to Will with a focus that reminds him of Hannibal right before he reaches into his mind.

Will circles around some more before stopping in front of Slink. “What does that mean?”

Slink pins him with a stare. “I think you know.”

Will looks away, at the dirt beside Slink’s hand. “Who are you?”

“Julian Slink, keeper of secrets.”

Will huffs. This is where anyone else would tell this guy to cooperate. “Then who’s up there?”

“Julian Slink, dead bastard.”

Rasher, two roadies, and an unhelpful of FBI people are getting the body down. He and Slink are gonna be in the way shortly. He steps aside and for the briefest moment Slink looks revolted. Then he too rises to his feet.

“Mr. Graham.” Slink says, and Will knows that in this context they have not been introduced. “You keep secrets too. Ones that are not your own.”

Will wants to get a closer look at the body. See what the Ripper has done this time. See the dream through his eyes.

To understand the man he’s talking to.

But Slink has stepped away like he doesn’t want to be seen near the corpse. And Will is drawn to secrets like a moth to flame.

Will knows he’s being led and he allows it.

Slink pauses, turning to look at him. And then his demeanor changes to apologetic like a switch was flipped. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” Slink makes a sweeping gesture with his hand in the shape for _phone_. “Show biz.”

It’s what he said before he stepped out from dinner. Slink switches back. “We both know who killed me.”

“It doesn’t seem to inconvenience you much.”

Slink makes a caricature of a smile. “My circumstances are… unique.”

Will dips his head, waiting.

“When your-” Slink waves his hand dismissively- “agents try to identify the body, they will find nothing. I exist only as a figment in the public’s imagination.”

“They’re not mine.” Will says automatically. He’s barely FBI at this point but he’s still somehow the man they call when the Ripper comes out.

“I would prefer to stay a figment.”

“I don’t control that information.”

“I don’t care what your thing with Hannibal is. But I am not always keeper of secrets.”

“I understand.” Will nods. If Slink burns Hannibal, he burns himself. They both know that. “You should go get your man and see that he doesn’t start something he can’t finish.”

Slink smiles. This time it is more genuine but his voice is anything but. “Thank you for you understanding and patience during this _very_ trying time.”

And then Slink leaves Will alone with his memories.

 

 

It's days later and miles down the road that Rasher gets a text from an unknown number. It contains a link to a Dropbox. Such things are inherently suspicious.

He clicks it. 

It's a zip file. The previewer shows him dozens of files, more images. Rasher extracts only the readme file from the mess. 

It says, "Since you're the one who officially exists, I got you marked as next of kin. Here's the documents for J. Slink."

Rasher sighs. Taking the body down hadn't been easy because somehow Hannibal had managed to rig it up there such it needed three people to get it down. And then the FBI bastards had snatched it away. 

He unzips the rest of it. It's all autopsy pictures and evidence reports. Everything that was found and everything that was not. 

His emotions must be showing in his face because Julian sticks a finger over the edge of his phone and pulls it down. 

"What's that?"

"Your autopsy reports."

"Oh,  _cool."_ Julian immediately leans over, obscuring Rasher's view of his own phone screen. 

"Here, take it. I don't want-" Rasher pushes the phone into Julian's greedy hands. 

Julian dives into it, flicking through the images as fast as film and only pausing to read when there's a call out on an image. It's more detail than Rasher can handle right now so he gets up and wanders off. 

Julian, of course, starts reading the evidence list out loud to him. There’s a lot on it. Rasher goes back over, ostensibly to shut him up but Julian finishes the list before he can. 

And then Rasher realizes something. "He kept your heart and part of your abdomen?" 

"I'm no specialist but yeah." 

Rasher folds himself down beside Julian and looks over his shoulder. Julian pulls up one of the full-body pictures and Rasher tries to look at the cuts and cracks and sutures like it's not in Julian. 

"He made bacon out of you. Cut you like a pig." He pauses. "Hannibal's a cannibal, Julian." 

Julian makes an ugly snorting sound. "Do you think he does it for the pun?" 

Rasher shrugs. "I would." 

"Of course  _you_ would, honey-doll." 

"I'm gonna kill him and take back whatever pieces of you he kept."

"He probably ate it already." 

"You know, symbolically, that won't stop me."

Julian turns to face him. "Baby, you can't take me in a fight half the time, and I didn't even land a hit on him. He's gonna fucking kill you."

Rasher scowls. "That's because losing to you is fun. I can get the drop on him."

"Don't do it, dumbass." Julian closes Rasher's phone and gets the drop on him.

 

 

The carnival moved on, of course it did. Slink didn’t die in his hands or on his tongue, and the tiresome advertising of it continued. Nobody caught the blame for the dead body and eventually it became another secret closeted inside the FBI.

Hannibal almost wishes he could put it aside that easily.

The little glitch with Slink- he’s let kills go before. The timing, the situation, the staging; wrong. But Slink died perfectly, submitted to his knife and his rebirth without his guts perfectly, assumed the place of a fallen angel perfectly.

And then cavorted onto his stage and reached out through the stark darkness to leave red fingerprints on Hannibal’s and Will’s hearts.

No, Hannibal isn’t done yet.


	2. Unlikely Penpals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rasher and Hannibal correspond on the topic of who has rights to Julian's body.

 Rasher digs Hannibal's address up out of the history on his phone.

Julian keeps stationary for when he must appear Proper to the right people- Rasher takes a piece, and an envelope. Hannibal might appreciate the symbolism of marking something that belongs to Julian. His letter is not long:

>  
> 
> Dear Hannibal,
> 
> Fuck you, he’s mine.
> 
> Regards.

Not many people are fearless enough to tell Hannibal to go fuck himself. It gives him a little chuckle that the _mortal_ one of the pair is the one snapping back at him. This merits a reply, if only to see what Rasher will do next.

>  
> 
> Dear Rasher,
> 
> I can take him from you as many times as I wish.
> 
> Regards,
> 
> Hannibal Lecter

There is a long time before the next reply comes. The circus, according to the tour dates, is winding up for the big finale. Perhaps Rasher is busy, or perhaps he is choosing carefully.

> You took some things of his that are rightfully mine. I know what they are and I will take them back.
> 
>  

Hannibal did not expect a threat. Curious, he responds:

>  
> 
> I await your attempt.
> 
>  


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a certain sort of simplicity to Hannibal’s life, Julian thinks as he explores the house. It looks a certain way; repulses or fascinates depending on the viewer’s tastes. Hannibal had called him trashy, or at least implied as much but Julian has carefully cultivated his look at least as carefully as Hannibal must have cultivated his own. He wonders, is it comfortable.

The kitchen is clearly the beloved place. Does Hannibal eat leftovers? Julian checks the fridge- yes. It feels like a dirty secret but cooking for one must get lonely despite Hannibal’s love for the activity. There’s no evidence of his proclivities either, not that Julian expected Hannibal to be so careless as to leave evidence where a guest might even unintentionally happen across it. 

Ah, almost time. Julian arranges himself to be slightly back-lit as he leans against the island in the kitchen to wait. He’s well into overthinking this when he hears Hannibal’s footsteps. He yanks himself back into the present just as Hannibal clicks the lights on.

“Hello, Julian. I don’t usually take guests after hours.” Hannibal walks around him, monumentally unbothered, to set his bag of vegetables down on the counter.

Julian is momentarily distracted by the image of Hannibal in his stupid suit at a farmer’s market. “I’m no usual guest.”

“What do you want?”

“A cessation of hostilities between you and Rasher.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him. “You should know better than to leave demands unarticulated.”

“We’re in the first round of negotiations. There’s still plenty of time for _articulations_ and additional demands.” He watches Hannibal meticulously wash a bunch of tomatoes and put them in a bowl to dry. One of the tomatoes is ruthlessly separated from the bunch and set aside. “While the dick I’ve been getting from him throughout this ordeal has been _excellent_ , this is not what any of us really want.”

“Does he know where you are?”

“Of course not. He doesn’t believe that I know.”

“You’re cheating on him with me in order to stop him from cheating on you with me.” Hannibal states like he's clarifying something.

Julian lets it in under his skin. “So reductive, Dr. Lecter. I thought you enjoyed the complicated nuance.”

“And you are incapable of subtlety.” Hannibal remarks. “Call him. I want him to know what, exactly, you’ll do for him.”

“Aw, are you counselling me? Perhaps you should call your stray and let him know too so we’re all being-” Julian waves dismissively- “responsible.”

Hannibal inclines his head slightly. “You first.”

Julian slips his phone free of his jacket’s inner pocket and dials. Hannibal is watching him like a hawk.

“Hello, baby.” The act is the words, not the meaning.  
“No, I’m at Dr. Lecter’s.”  
“Private residence.” Caramel and thorns, prick his tongue and heart. “I’m trading for your life.”  
He wonders how much of this Hannibal can hear.  
“You are worth more to me in a moment than any instantiation will ever be.”  
“Yes. If circumstances allow. No, I will not arrange.”  
“love you too.” Casual, like he’s not offering the whole of himself in his duplicitous multitude every time he says it.

“Did you think that was gonna work? Your turn.” Julian challenges.

Hannibal almost looks impressed. “So it is.” He dials: the phone rings until it goes to voicemail which apologizes for being full in a tinny voice and hangs up.

Hannibal spreads his hands in false apology, phone held loosely but no less a weapon than a knife held the same way.

Julian scowls. “Text him. Mutually assured-” He points up, twisting his finger and grinning.

Hannibal types something out before placing his phone face down on the counter with a click. “You don’t even know what I want.”

“You’re either gonna kill me and eat me, feed me some of myself, or fuck me.” Julian shrugs. “I’d prefer if you didn’t damage my clothing but beyond that, I’m easy. I’m _real_ easy.”

“Do you want to know what you taste like?”

“Dr. Lecter, are you flirting with me?” Julian mocks being scandalized before flipping his hand up with his fingers in a v and flicking his tongue between them.

“You have a chemical taste, quite unpalatable. I can’t smell it on you until you’re dead. Why is that?”

“I’m not a  _real boy_ , Dr. Lecter. I thought you knew.”

“How does your instantiation work?” Hannibal balances carefully on the unfamiliar use of the word.

“Is this my key?” Julian suppresses a smirk. “I don’t know _how_ it works. Nobody does.”

“Not good enough.”

“My bodies are grown in tanks. I was born in 1921 and died the first time in 1962. I used to be a psychologist- you've probably read my work- but now I’m a showman and the only true living monster.” Julian shrugs. “None of the other subjects reinstantiated.”

“Why do you think I want to fuck you?”

“I’m the avatar of base desires. You’ve killed me and fed on me, and I won’t be made fearful of you. So really, there’s only fucking power left. You’re curious what I’ll do when  _really_ pushed and I’m here to deliver.”

“And Will isn’t ready for you yet.” Julian narrows his eyes. “Fuck me and I’ll trade you his name on your lips when you come for Rasher’s protection.”

Hannibal leans towards him, hands flat on the countertop. “Deal. Get out of my kitchen.”

Julian sheds his jacket as he breezes out through the door. “Don’t keep me waiting, meat-pie.”

 

Julian is not as flighty as he plays. He’d walked the whole house when he’d snuck in. No reason to get trapped by ignorance while poking the bear. And Hannibal had been gracious enough to assume that Julian had intruded that far. So he makes his way to Hannibal’s bedroom with casual unfamiliarity. 

Will is the crux of this. Every time Hannibal can’t kill him, he finds someone else to be  _rude_ and kills them. And then in return reveals some part of himself.

Julian and Rasher are just the latest distractions.

He hangs his jacket on a side chair, sets his hat and cane aside. He looks around for a few minutes to absorb detail that had gotten overlooked before. It’s much like the rest of the house; opulently austere. Except here there are creature comforts and evidence of life being lived. He sprawls back on the bed, flops his hands over his chest and thinks of Rasher nosed in against his neck as his thin fingers open his shirt. This is a game of infidelity and oh, they’re both gonna lose.

Julian hears Hannibal’s footsteps and rolls himself up into a languid pose. He knows that his shirt will expose his neck and collarbones just so, and that Hannibal will know his artifice.

“Julian-.” Hannibal stops, lets his gaze travel Julian’s body and he sees the gaze stick at his collarbones. “Tawdry.”

“Would I be any other way?” Julian beckons him, “Don’t-”

Hannibal breaks out of his pause, moving to Julian in a few quick strides to push him onto his back and cage him with his body. Julian’s looking up at him, appreciating the construction of Hannibal’s face and contemplating the logistics of rolling them over when Hannibal dips down and growls, “Don’t talk. No words.” And opens his jaws over Julian’s throat.

Julian can feel his teeth matched against his arteries, the just sharpness against his trachea. The thrill of it rips through him like fire on a glut of gasoline vapor. “Suck my dick, Hannibal.”

“I will pull your tongue out.”

Julian reaches up and zips through Hannibal’s buttons. “And fuck me while I choke on my own blood? I didn’t think you had that kind of mess in you.”

Hannibal cups his face in one hand and _fuck_ his hands are huge. “I can’t kill you and make you stay dead but for the next hour, you are what I make you.”

Julian licks at Hannibal’s thumb where it covers his lips. “Oh, is your golden retriever joining us? He’ll be so disappointed when he sees what you’ve done with me.”

Hannibal surges against him; strong lean hard. “He won’t see anything.”

“Shut me up with your cock, Hannibal.”

Hannibal grunts, yanking them both upright. “Get to it.”

Julian rapidly gets Hannibal’s trousers and unders down just far enough for him to get in there. Hannibal’s dick isn’t hard, just a bit thicker than soft. He thinks to himself  _noodle_ , almost laughs, and sucks it into his mouth. This part is always weird, feeling it stretch on his tongue and fill his mouth and press back to his throat. He swallows and everything shifts fit to gag him and Hannibal makes this delightful little silenced moan so he does it again and again and again until Hannibal’s composure is cracked and he needs to breath.

Hannibal drags him off his cock; Julian releases it with a reluctant pop. The back of his mouth is full of that horrible thick saliva, so he horks it back with a gross sound just to irritate Hannibal.

Hannibal looks down at him with disgust writ clear. Disgust with Julian, disgust with himself.

“You’re curious.” Julian reminds him. “You want to know what I’ll do for him.”

“Don’t tell me what I think.”

“Then stop taking my suggestions.” Julian sneers.

Hannibal’s gaze sharpens. “Get on the floor.”

“Why?” Julian sits up properly.

Hannibal shoves him hard, nearly a strike.

Julian flails, untidily falling to the hardwood floor. “Hey!”

Hannibal sits at the edge of his bed, staring down at Julian. He’s down here, fully dressed, and Hannibal’s up there, disheveled but with his erection put away and he’s toeing his shoes on. Julian grins cheekily up at him.

Hannibal pushes him down until his face hits the floor. The quality of the wood is fucking incredible so he says so. Hannibal moves his shoe to rest on Julian’s throat. He wiggles, coughs, it’s not a choking pressure but it’s making his throat itch on the inside. Hannibal holds him like that for a moment and then shifts to press Julian’s cheek to the floor and the sole of his other shoe to Julian’s lips. “Clean my soles. Don’t touch the leather.”

Julian thinks about leather etched with acid, slowly cutting through in organic patterns, and Hannibal’s fastidious lifestyle. Practice, Bentley, home. No real dirt on this Italian leather, just dust and hand-cut grooves. But the implication, to  make him eat dirt . Julian rasps out a laugh and gets squashed for his trouble.

He drags his tongue along the edge of the sole. Grooves, dust, the stray smell of the polish tastes like the tooth-black that he usually wears. 

Hannibal is not hiding his disgust that Julian is submitting to this, willing, easily. The enjoyment is fake, though. Julian doesn’t particularly care for being on this side of the boot, but the performance requires care and  _that_ he can do. So he works carefully to Hannibal’s standards.

“Enough.” Hannibal says, pushing him over onto his back. Bored, maybe, of his compliance.

Julian goes easily, stretching as carelessly as he can on the floor and popping his shoulders. Not seductive but visibly unbothered by what he’d just been made to do and what had been done to his body.

Hannibal looks down at him like he's an insect, or tainted meat. Julian supposes that one of those is true, so he sits up and takes his shirt off because as much as he's had Hannibal's dick in his mouth neither of them are naked yet and that's a damn shame if the glimpses he's gotten of Hannibal's body are anything to go by. 

Julian pushes in between his knees, sliding his hands up Hannibal's sides under his unbuttoned shirt. He's cool, cool skin to match icy personality. Hannibal's hands land on his shoulders, keeping him from leaning in and then his fingers find the quarter sized scars in Julian's back like he knows where they are. 

"What are these?" 

Julian rolls his shoulders. "My first act as a new man is to lift myself off of the meat hooks my spares are hung on in storage." 

"Barbaric." 

Julian pushes himself up enough to mouth around Hannibal's ear, if he wanted to. Instead he slides his voice down low and rough, "What, at the basest level, isn't barbaric?" 

Hannibal doesn’t smile, not exactly, when he says, “Shall we be barbaric, then.” and yanks Julian up so hard that they fall over backwards such that Julian lands on top of Hannibal.

Julian laughs, startled and delighted. He adjusts himself upward to straddle Hannibal’s hips and to press himself bare chest to bare chest and face to neck. He purrs, “We shall.”

Hannibal's hands slide up Julian's sides to his back, fingers digging in at his shoulder blades, his spine, he supposes that's where his kidneys are. He knows Hannibal is evaluating him despite his inediblety; maybe he can't turn that part of himself off. But Hannibal's hands are on his ass now, man knows what he's doing at least. The kneading pulls a groan out of Julian and he doesn't stilt it. He wants to be encouraging and distracting now that Hannibal's got his hands on him; he wants to stretch this time out like silly putty and let Will walk into the sticky gossamer strands of it. Force Hannibal's hand a little, if the man hadn't lied to him about how long before Will arrived. 

Hannibal interrupts his thoughts with his fist in Julian's belt and mild disapproval in his voice, "I thought you wanted to fuck." 

Hannibal hasn't been at all responsive to Julian's hands and lips on his chest but rough words seem to work on him so he stretches out on top of Hannibal again. "You seemed reluctant to get started and it's rather more enjoyable when my assets are wanted." 

And then he hears something that is not them. He pauses, pushes himself up on one arm and he hears it again: footsteps. 

"Your boy's early." Julian observes. Hannibal is looking up at him without concern, the spark in his eyes that had been absent now lit. 

"Oh." Julian says. He can feel it coming like a thousand tiny stones ground in where they don't belong, as surely as if those hardwood floors were his. "You conniving cunt." 

Will says something. It's irrelevant because Julian knows he's not walking away from this one. He hadn't expected to, but the moment of certainty is always a little disruptive as all of his priorities align to maximize the reward on his remaining time. 

He rears back to punch Hannibal in the gut absolutely as hard as he can. Hannibal bucks, face contorted in pain and it's incredibly satisfying. 

Will grabs him from behind, hauling him back and off of Hannibal with his arm around his throat. Julian lands a couple of hits on Will before he can't breathe and then when Will drops him, he can't stop his head from bouncing on the floor. 

He's stuck there, trying to get up, looking up at Hannibal- they're both standing over him. Hannibal is holding Will's face in both hands and saying something comforting in the low registers of his voice and Will is trembling. 

Julian is just getting his limbs coordinated before Will breaks free from Hannibal's grasp. He slams Julian back down by the throat and holds him-

 

 

-arcing pain in his back. Julian pries his eyes open and sees that Rasher is waiting for him. It’s touching, it really is.

Rasher sees his eyes open and before Julian can say anything, Rasher is speaking. Demanding. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?" 

There's no air in his lungs. None whatsoever and his first inhale sets him coughing, grotesque and dry and jerking his fresh new body around on the hooks and plumbing it's  hung  on. 

Rasher watches him swing until he can breathe without choking before he deigns to step in close and lay hands on Julian to steady him while he lifts himself off the hooks.

Instead Julian hooks his legs around Rasher’s hips and pulls them together. It hurts in the meat of his shoulders as the hooks shift again. Rasher hugs him, instinctively moving to hold him before he remembers that he’s mad.

“Hey, I’m back.” Julian says softly.

“I see that. Why the fuck are you like this?”

“He won’t toy with you anymore. It’s done.” Julian kisses the side of Rasher’s neck. “Help me down.”

Rasher shuffles until Julian can stand on the toes of his boots, giving him a bit more slack to work the hooks out of his back with. “We’re not done with this.”

“I only sucked his dick a little bit. Ow,  _fuck_ .” Julian groans as he steps down. The floor is incredibly cold under his bare feet.

“And how was that.” Julian looks carefully at Rasher. Rasher is collecting his ammunition for later.

“He’ll break spectacularly when he breaks, but I can’t be bothered and that’s for Will to do anyway.” All of the clothes he leaves at his storage sites are boring and it’s for good reason but that doesn’t make putting them on any better.

Half dressed, he turns to face Rasher again. “I got what I wanted: you, out from under his thumb.”

“How do you know it worked?”

“Will pulled me off of him and bashed my skull in on the floor. Hannibal seemed proud.” Julian says wryly. “Whatever freaky shit they’ve got going on doesn’t involve us anymore.”

“Wow, okay.” Rasher snags him again as soon as he’s into his shirt.

“Take me home, baby, you can keep being mad at me there.” Julian grins. “Or you can fuck me like you’re still jealous.”

 

 

It’s three days later when there’s an unexpected knock at the door.

“It’s for you.” Rasher says ambivalently.

“I really don’t think so.” Julian loves mail regardless, so he answers the door when the knock sounds again.

There’s a courier out there with a cooler and a patiently irritated expression. “Rasher?”

“He’s in there.” Julian turns and hollers. “It’s for you!”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s a felony to take someone else’s mail!”

Rasher brushes up beside him to mutter, “When have you ever given a shit about felonies?”

The courier taps her foot. “Just sign for it.”

Rasher makes an incomprehensible squiggle for his signature and hands the clipboard back to the courier. She sort of nudges the cooler with her foot, but it doesn’t move. It’s a big cooler.

Rasher stoops and drags it backwards into the house.

The courier looks shrugs and then hands Julian a rolled up bundle. “There’s this too.”

Julian weights the bundle. “Oi.”

“Yeah?” The courier turns back, more irritated.

“Where’s this from?”

“Dunno. It’s not a normal dropbox but that’s what dispatch said it was.”

“Hm. Well, if you get another one of these, take a different job.”

“Yeah, alright.” The courier walks away, clearly tired of this.

Julian finds Rasher sitting on the floor beside the cooler with a card in his hands and a bemused expression on his face. He flips the card up at Julian. “I thought you said this was over.”

Julian reads the card.

 

> “Yourself and Mr. Slink have been very obliging in regard to my own love life. I wanted to extend my thanks.”

“I didn’t expect a thank you card. Gonna open it?”

“Guess I gotta.” Rasher unlatches the cooler lid and flips it open. Inside is neat rows of plastic bags, large ones with smaller ones inside. Each large one has a card inside it as well.

Julian squats down to get a closer look. Rasher starts lifting out the bags and setting them down in a ring around him. “I think this is a recipe kit, Julian. Would you care to explain?”

“Uh.” Julian looks at a couple of the recipe cards. “I think these are made out of me.”

“Is this a joke?” Rasher’s voice is cold.

“I think it’s a thank you note.” Julian says carefully. “If you can stomach me just a little more, we’ll eat well on this.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about _Hannibal_ preparing my boyfriend for me.” Rasher grumbles. “What if he poisoned it?”

“That’s worse than treason to him.” Julian winks. “It’s safe and I’m probably delicious.”

Rasher rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Help me get all this into the fridge.”

**Author's Note:**

> All comments appreciated! Let me know what you liked, what you didn't, and what stood out to you! Thanks!


End file.
